Surrounded By Idiots!
by conquistaWHORE
Summary: Lovino Vargas has issues.  . . . That's it.
1. Chapter 1

It was your typical summer day in the sunshine kingdom, Spain; hot, dry, and _so long_. It was as if the God that he was currently cursing at was laughing at the feisty Italian's words, making seconds stretch into minutes, minutes stretching into hours, hours stretching into— you get the deal. It was only, what, around eleven PM? And already, Lovino Vargas wanted to take a siesta! Of course, he had not earned the right to yet, so he would keep working alongside his Spanish co-worker, Antonio Fernández Carriedo. After all, everybody knows that siestas are _always _better after you work hard.

"Ehi, bastardo," he snapped at the dopey Spaniard, "don't you start spacing out on me this early!" He snapped his fingers in front of the others' face, a frown growing on his face. No response. None of the usual happy attacks,' that he had for some stupid reason, no random dance moves, no breaking out into that weird laugh of his.

"…" After a few moments of silence, Lovino put down his basket of tomatoes, one hand gripping onto his straw hat, the other curled into a fist to show the _spagnolo _who his true _babbo _was. He'd teach him a lesson or two! First lesson: do not ignore a Southerner! Especially since he was _un italiano vero_! Sai dove la gente fuggire? Italia, and that was exactly where this Vargas brother was going to kick his ass if he didn't respond! He had connections with the mafia in Sicily, AND in Sardinia too; he would make him regret ignoring him. He had been ignored most of his life; by his _nonno_, the Roman, who had only raised him long enough to name him, teach him the basics, and then push him aside to make room for his _fratello_. That _idiota_, Feliciano! He was even dopier than Antonio, weak when it came to anything and everything, including fighting, and completely useless without pasta. His favorite was _farfalle_; why, you may ask?

Because it looked like a motherfucking butterfly. God, Feliciano was just… so…

"… so cute!" Antonio chimed up, finally out of his dazed stage. Lovino's foot went into a 'spasm,' and he cussed as he knocked over the basket of tomatoes 'by accident,' walking away and leaving Antonio to pick up the mess. He knew he idiot couldn't read his mind, but he was right. Feliciano _was_ cute. So fucking cute that all he wanted to do was take a rusty, five meter long pasta fork and shove it up his cute little bu_–_

"I'll be back later!" he called out to the confused Spaniard, who inquired, "where ya goin', Lovi?" With a heavy, exasperated sigh, he turned back to look at Antonio with one of his _looks. _Speaking very slowly through gritted teeth, he said, "I have to _go. _What, do you want to follow me to the bathroom, bastard?" The brunette turned and rushed away from the fields in a hurry, since he knew that if he gave him the opportunity, Antonio would follow him. What a fucking _creep._

The brown-haired Spaniard shrugged to himself, returning his gaze to the fallen tomatoes. He sighed, and started picking them up, rubbing at each one of the fruits with the hem of his shirt. All he had done was say that he looked cute, what was wrong with that? Maybe he didn't want attention… that had to be it! Antonio smiled dreamily. His little Italian was just like one of those little turtles, hiding in his little shell to protect himself, and snapping at whoever tried to get him out~


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Ho-la people! I am surprised people actually paid attention to this, being my first fan-fiction and all. In addition, my first… anything… to be (sort of) written from South Italy's view. If I overdo the cursing, and he throws bitch-fits in every chapter, well– that is not my fault. It is reality. _Fictional_ reality. He bitches and moans all over the place– and he has the right to, most of the time. (At least, that's what he tells himself.)

-Moreover, he looks fantastic while doing it.

Even though this says S. Italy/Spain— it also says Romance/Family. So if you came looking for Spamano… either you are going to get it or you are going to be very, very disappointed. Unless you are like me, and understand and accept that, yes, Spain does not have to be Romano's lover— he can be his father figure.

But then again he could be both, but at separate times.

-What I'm trying to say? Don't expect them to be together, and, don't expect them _not_ to be together.

* * *

><p>He hopped onto his scooter, a beautiful, classic cherry tomato red Vespa. Sure, the 2008 Vespa LX150 was fine and all, with all its new gizmos and gadgets, but the classic Vespa was— well, classic! Sure, some people thought it was a piece of junk, but they were stupid. Idiots, all of them, blind to the inner beauty of the Classic Vespa. He eyed the glossy black helmet with a tomato hand painted onto the side, and a signature of some sort right next to the fruit. Maybe not all of them are idiots, he thought, but most are. Feliciano had painted the tomato on, or had it been Antonio? He remembered— it was around Christmas, and he was broke. He was worse off than Antonio, who had been living like a rat, but a well-fed one considering the fact that the French slug had been cooking for him every day. Lovino did not have anyone to cook for him—he did not want anybody. He did not need anybody. He was Lovino Vargas, and he could survive on his own!<p>

At first, he had been doing well, living off old money that he had inherited and saved just in case something like this happened—and he knew that it would happen sooner or later, because of his crappy luck—but then everything just fell apart. He had to move in with Feliciano, but that was not the worst thing that could happen—the worst thing that DID happen was that he had Antonio as a neighbor, and the French slug, but not the nasty-freaky-white-as-fuck-German weirdo who had a thing for Feliciano. (He lived on the next floor up, with the even-weirder-nastier-freakier-but-not-as-white-German one. Apparently they were related or something, which explained the creeper vibes he got from both of them.) Without wanting to, the Southerner found himself slipping, back to those times—

* * *

><p>He had never been a fan of working at an office, but now, he <em>hated <em>it with a passion. Now he understood why his cousins were always bitching and moaning about working as secretaries—it was hard work! He could not feel his fingers because of all that typing, and the sound of fingers tapping against keys was stuck in his head. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap— taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap—

"_Che cazzo!"_ he cried out, jumping up from his creaky seat at the desk with the look of an insane man on his face. "Fuck this! Fuck all of this!" He gave the monitor a rough shove, laughing like a lunatic, yanking the mouse cord and spilling his latte, too. He turned to the rest of the people in the room, pointing at a tall, blond man. His green eye twitched slightly. That guy was… too scary. He turned and pointed at a smaller, less intimidating blonde-haired man with glasses. Ah, he had a polar bear plush on his desk—he would not hurt a fly even if it hurt him first!

"Fuck _you_, and your _mother_, and your little _bear_," Lovino spat at him, and then pointed towards his soon-to-be-former boss, the Americano, Alfred F. nobody-fucking-cares-about-his-last-name-because-he's-_ritardato. _"And _he's_ not the one who ate your disgusting poutine. It was _me _and I hated _every single bite._" He heard a cry come from the general direction of the Canadian, but he was not sure whether it came from him or from _il ritardato _because there was no food left for him to shove down his throat. Grabbing his case and making sure to topple over the CPU as he left, Lovino stomped his way out to the doors.

"Oh—and in case you haven't connected the dots yet, _idiota, _I quit," he snapped at Alfred, who was patting Mathieu's back in an attempt to stop his sniffling. "Bill the damages to… to, ah, Feliciano Vargas!"


End file.
